Wedding Flowers II
by PlayerPiano
Summary: Three short stories about the courtship and weddings of Victor and Victoria's daughters Lydia, Catherine, and Mary.
1. Lydia

**Author's Note:  
** I don't own Corpse Bride or its characters. However, I made up some new ones and readers seem interested in them. Years ago, when I published "Wedding Flowers" (yikes, almost five years ago), which was about one of Victoria and Victor's daughters getting married, a few people asked for stories about the weddings of the other daughters. I started drafting a couple of ideas. Then I got sidetracked by life and other projects, and only recently dusted these stories off. If anyone still cares and is interested, here's Lydia's story. If people want I'll continue with Catherine and Mary. Happy reading, and feedback welcome!

 **Wedding Flowers: Lydia**

The Van Dort's Fish empire.

Pleased, Lydia Van Dort ran her palms over the large map on her desk. She'd just added her latest conquest in bold black ink: the Rybakov wharf in a little port on the Black Sea. Now Van Dort's Fish could boast wharves, boats, and processing plants from Odessa to Copenhagen and all spots in between. Cannery after cannery. Success after success.

And someday it would all be hers.

It seemed she hadn't stopped moving since that very first business trip two years ago. She and Mr. Van Schelven went everywhere. Sometimes Grandad joined them, sometimes a board member or two, and Alice, her maid, was always her companion. But it was always the two of them. They were partners. And they'd already built something wonderful.

Lydia had never been happier in her life.

Business helped keep her mind off other things. There was still a war on. A very profitable one for canned food suppliers such as Van Dort's Fish, but otherwise...There were towns and villages she'd visited that were completely empty of young men. Stately old houses were now hospitals. Train travel was hard, almost impossible sometimes. The canneries they'd purchased were working on skeleton crews. Many fish suppliers had been cut off, and every cannery had been making do. Though from all accounts, this horrible war might be over soon.

But they'd been saying that for years. Lydia sighed, and crossed out a large swath of Western Europe on her map. They'd not go there for a while.

"Mail!" called Joseph, the office boy, rapping on her open office door.

Lydia waved him in, and cleared a spot on the desk for the mail. Thinking about the war had made her think about her brother-in-law. He'd been gone for two years. Ned was also the accountant at the cannery, and Lydia missed their Friday accounting days. She missed him almost as much as her sister Anne did. They hadn't heard news of him for a while.

"And this is the non-business, Miss Van Dort," Joseph told her, placing a second pile of mail on her desk. Lydia pushed an errant strand of hair out of her eyes.

"Thanks for sorting it," she said. "Saves me time."

Joseph grinned, picked up his mail bag, and left the room.

George Van Schelven strode into her office as Joseph left, and closed the door behind him. Lydia nodded and smiled a greeting. Van Schelven wasn't a tall man, barely came up to Lydia's shoulder, in fact, but he was broad and strong. In another life he might have been a boxer. The one time she'd seen him help haul a catch off a boat she'd been very impressed. Van Schelven was her father's age, after all.

Over the past couple of years, as they'd worked, traveled, and planned together, Lydia had come to think of the two of them as partners. Grandad might own the place, and Father might be second-in-command on paper, but as far as the actual business of Van Dort's Fish went, the whole works belonged to Lydia and Van Schelven.

She was pretty sure Mr. Van Schelven felt the same way.

"Any news from Waterland?" he asked, coming right up and helping himself to her pile of mail with one beefy, calloused hand. Lydia stopped him with a hand on his wrist.

"Rifle this pile," she said, moving his hand to the smaller stack of envelopes. "That other one is personal."

Van Schelven grinned, and scooped up the envelopes. He took a seat across from her, put his feet up on her desk, and began to flip through the letters. Not finding anything of interest to him, he tossed the pile back on the desk. Lydia just rolled her eyes and shook her head.

"What's in the personal pile today?" Van Schelven asked wickedly, folding his hands over his middle and leaning back. He was still grinning at her from under his mustache. His gold tooth caught the light, winking at her.

Her personal mail had become a joke between them. When Lydia had simply been a cannery heiress, she'd had a smattering of half-hearted suitors. Sir Ralph at the lumbermill had been the most insistent, with her grandmothers' encouragement. Now that she was set to own an empire of canneries, and especially since she'd started traveling, more and more men had found themselves interested in her. And they always sent their letters of introduction to her personally, at Van Dort's Fish.

Lydia smiled and picked up the personal mail. Joseph found it easy to sort out for her. Business proposals were sent to Van Schelven or her father, or to Grandad. Only marriage proposals had her name on them. This annoyed her greatly. These other cannery men could just barely stand to be in an office with her, and couldn't quite bring themselves to address business correspondence to a woman, even if she'd written them first. They were perfectly comfortable harassing her with personal matters at her place of business, however, no encouragement required.

"Let's see," she said, enjoying this game. It took a bit of the sting out of the disrespect. She casually tossed each envelope to Van Schelven when she finished reading it. "Oh, another one from dear Torvald in Norway. And one from Mr. Stavanger in Sweden—the one who keeps wanting to explain to me about the sardine lawsuit—and a postcard from Edvard in Copenhagen."

"Charming your way through Scandinavia, eh?" broke in Van Schelven. "Whatever gets us a cut of the herring, I suppose."

Lydia just lobbed the postcard at him and went on, "This one's new. A Mr. Smythe. British. Lots of North Sea interests, and railroads."

"Smythe...that wiry rabbity-looking fellow? The one who visited us last month, asking about fish meal?"

"I think so," Lydia replied, thinking back. She barely remembered that meeting. Though she did recall the cool, appraising look Mr. Smythe had given her across the table. And then how his eyes had widened when she'd stood to her full six-foot-four.

"Well," said Lydia, sitting back in her chair and looking over the letter again, "Rabbity or not, I could do with a railroad. Think how convenient our work travel would be if I owned the line."

Mr. Van Schelven snorted. "If your Mr. Smythe would let you work, that is."

"This cannery wouldn't be what it is today without me," Lydia said hotly. "Nobody could make me stay away."

"I know," Mr. Van Schelven replied. "Believe me. I'd let you work."

Under her dark stare Van Schelven grinned, then raised his hands. " _Want_ you to," he told her amiably. "If it were me."

"Are you proposing?" she asked lightly, kidding. The very idea.

"No! No," he replied quickly. His tone surprised her. He cleared his throat and fiddled with his watch chain, at long last taking his feet off of her desk. Then he removed the letters she'd tossed at him from his lap and set them on the edge of her desk.

"If I were?" he asked.

"If you were what?"

"Proposing. What if I were?"

"Are you?"

"No."

Cocking her eyebrow, Lydia picked up her pen and drew her business correspondence toward her. "I don't enjoy hypotheticals," she said evenly. But her heart had started to beat hard enough that she fancied she could feel it beneath her ribs.

A silence fell. Lydia kept her attention on the latest letter from their Copenhagen branch—all good news, she was pleased to find. All the while she could feel Van Schelven's eyes on her. He was giving off a very strange air. She'd worked closely with him long enough that they'd developed a good sense of one another's moods. And this one was new to her.

In an uncomfortable way.

Abruptly, Van Schelven stood. Lydia half-rose before he waved her back to her seat.

"Keep your seat, keep your seat," he said. He made for the door, talking more to himself than to her. "I just need to—the Waterland accounts. I need the—thing."

And then he was gone, closing the door firmly behind him.

Bemused, Lydia sat back in her chair again. She looked at the pile of letters, and then again over her map. What in the world had that been about? And where had he gone? She had all of the paperwork for the Dutch accounts. And they were supposed to finalize details for their inspection trip to the coast next week.

Lydia picked up her pen and began to jot down notes for a reply to Copenhagen. Only half her mind was on her work. Mr. Van Schelven had never looked at her that way before. Nor had he ever mentioned marriage, unless they were mocking Lydia's suitors together.

What if he were proposing? The question gave her pause. It made her mind go blank, her heart give another funny little rattle in her chest.

Lydia was twenty-five years old and still living in an attic room in her parents' house. One of her sisters was married, another engaged to an aristocrat and set to be married in the spring. While she loved her life, loved her relative freedom, she still didn't feel entirely independent.

Eventually, she would have to get married. It seemed inescapable. Mother had told her more than once not to throw herself into marriage. And yet Lydia was having trouble seeing how to avoid it. Without being married, she'd never have a house of her own, at least not until her parents died. She couldn't move about freely without Alice playing chaperone. Her parents, her grandad, and the men at the cannery, particularly Mr. Van Schelven, gave her a lot of free rein.

The problem was that she was still reined. She was utterly dependent. The canneries wouldn't belong to her officially for years and years at best. At least if she got married, she'd only have to worry about one person allowing her freedom to do things, as Mr. Van Schelven had just pointed out.

And, more than all of that...she was lonely. Lydia had had a few little adventures along the way—there was the summer when Mr. Reed's grandson had been staying with them to help with the horses, a brief encounter at a dance put on by her boarding school, but nothing serious. Nothing remotely approaching an actual romance.

It never used to bother her before. Lydia glanced at the personal letters. Men looked at her and saw dollar signs. Not a person. Not a partner. With one hand she swept the pile into the wastebasket and got on with her notes.

When her office door rattled open again she jumped. Mr. Van Schelven, perspiring and a bit red in the face, entered and swung the door shut behind him. He strode toward her in that purposeful, square-shouldered way he approached tough clients. Lydia, wondering, turned in her chair as he came right around the desk and stood beside her.

"I am," he told her gruffly. Lydia blinked up at him.

"You're what?" she asked.

"Proposing. You're the best partner I've ever had. I enjoy our trips. I like you. Will you marry me?"

Lydia dropped her pen. It clattered on the desktop and rolled away, stopped by her nameplate. Open-mouthed, she stared at him.

0–0

Lydia took a breath before she knocked on Catherine's bedroom door later that evening. Lydia had been distracted all through dinner. She'd managed to go all the way through to dessert with a string bean on her front. She hadn't noticed it until she'd gone upstairs to change into her dressing gown.

Mother and Father had remarked that she seemed quiet, but probably assumed she had her mind on work, as she always did. Catherine carried the bulk of the conversation anyway. With her wedding swiftly approaching, there was lots to talk about. Tonight's topic had been the wedding dinner menu. At one point during a fevered duck or goose debate, Mary, their youngest sister, had pretended to faceplant into her soup out of boredom.

"Come in!" Catherine called.

Upon entering Lydia found her sister sitting cross-legged in the middle of her bed. She wore her lacy dressing gown and her beautiful blond hair was in loose waves around her shoulders. Several open magazines were fanned out around her, along with an open notebook and a pencil.

"I'm working on floral arrangements," said Catherine as Lydia perched beside her. "I want pink roses, those ones that Mother grows, and we're having a terrible time convincing Teddy's aunt. So far as she's concerned, brides wear orange blossoms and that's the end of it. I'm sure I'll bring her around, though."

"Ah," said Lydia. She was doubtful. From what she'd overheard, poor Catherine was having a hard time convincing her fiance's family to do anything that deviated from tradition.

The Van Lyndens were a very old family, older even than the Everglots. Grandmamma had brokered the match for Catherine. Except the original deal had been an engagement with the former Count. In his eighties at least, with yellow teeth and a nasty disposition. He'd had the grace to conveniently die just after Anne and Ned had been married. Lacking other relatives and having no children (despite having run through five wives), the old Count's great-nephew had taken up the mantle. And the engagement.

Catherine had been all too happy to accept. That had been two years ago. The Van Lyndens believed in long engagements. Besides, the new count had a lot to get in order before he married, and Catherine loved to plan social events. It had all worked out for the best.

Lydia had never even met Theodore, Catherine's fiance. She'd been on her very first business trip when he'd come to call. Catherine had shown off his photograph more than once, though, and Lydia had to admit Theodore was a strikingly handsome young man. Very nearly pretty. Almost prettier than Catherine.

"But really, orange blossoms are pretty against ivy, aren't they?" Catherine said, studying an illustration in one of her magazines. "Maybe we could make that work." She jotted down a couple of notes.

"Mr. Van Schelven proposed to me," Lydia blurted. Catherine's eyes widened and she froze for a few moments, pencil still poised above her notepad.

" _Really?_ " Catherine breathed, dropping her pencil to take Lydia by the wrist. "He proposed?"

"Yes, really," Lydia replied. "Today at work. Out of the blue."

"About time," said Catherine with a toss of her head. Lydia was about to ask what on earth _that_ meant when Catherine added, "So what did you say?!"

There was a silence.

"Liddie! Come on! What did you say?"

Lydia buried her face in her hands, blushing at the memory. "I said, 'I have a meeting,'" she said through her fingers. "And then I ran out of the room."

After staring for a moment, Catherine burst out laughing. Reluctantly, Lydia joined in with a low, half-hearted chuckle. It _was_ rather ridiculous.

"Oh my goodness, I can just picture the look on his face," Catherine said, wiping a tear from her eye. "He must have been gobsmacked."

"I think he was," said Lydia, remembering. She'd just left him in her office. He'd tried to call her back, but she'd gone straight to her grandfather's office. It was the first place she could think of where she might reasonably go. Grandad had been surprised to see her, but had kept her busy with a stack of contracts until Mr. Van Schelven left for the day.

"Are you going to accept?" Catherine asked now.

"I don't know," Lydia said honestly. Her sister cocked an eyebrow. "I really don't!"

"You've known each other a long time," Catherine mused, tapping her pencil against her lips in thought. "You seem to get along. And I've seen how he looks at you. When I've visited you at work and when he's come to the house."

Lydia could feel her cheeks getting hot. "He doesn't look at me in a _way_ ," she said. Catherine just rolled her eyes.

"He's pretty old, though," Catherine went on. "Twice your age at least. Can you imagine having to kiss him every day?"

The thought made Lydia feel cold and strange. "Uh...I don't...I'd never considered it," she fumbled. She honestly hadn't. All those trips they'd taken together, all the times they'd been alone, Mr. Van Schelven had always been perfectly respectful and businesslike. Never anything untoward or awkward. Kissing Mr. Van Schelven. Somehow she couldn't imagine it. But it surprised her how easily she could imagine living with him. Just like their trips. But permanent.

"But I like him," she went on, fidgety under Catherine's appraising look. "I do. He's very good company. And he loves the cannery as much as I do. I trust him."

Slowly, Catherine nodded. She patted Lydia's hand. "And that's _very_ important," she said.

"At least the business end is all sewn up tight," Lydia said, toying with the end of her long braid. "We took care of it last year. Legally. Grandad and Father and I. Van Dort's Fish is mine. Totally. Or will be soon. And Mr. Van Schelven knows that. So that's not why he proposed."

"Well _gosh_ ," said Catherine, crossing her eyes and putting on a dunce voice, "maybe he proposed because he's in love with you, not because he's in love with the cannery."

That couldn't be it. No no. Lydia shook her head but couldn't bring herself to speak.

"Well, whatever you do, you can't have this May, it's mine," Catherine told her, picking up a fresh magazine. "I've been planning for two years. And you've got maid of honor duties."

Lydia rose. "I'll let you get on with it, then," she said, making for the door.

"Liddie?"

Lydia turned. Catherine was smiling at her.

"Good luck," she said.

0–0

"I like your new curtains," Lydia said over lunch at Anne's house the next day. The small, narrow windows in the front room had been draped with crisp white curtains, embroidered with little vines and flowers along the edge.

"Thank you," Anne replied. "I made them."

Anne had spent most of her short marriage alone. Channeling her energy into handicraft, it appeared. She'd morphed into quite the little hausfrau. Lydia had never been much good at that sort of thing. Anne was in an especially good mood today, humming while she poured out tea and served sandwiches. When Lydia asked, Anne pulled an envelope from her apron pocket.

"Ned's coming home," she announced, beaming. Lydia gasped and grabbed the letter. It was just a telegram, but indeed, that's what it said. Ogdred Weary was on his way home. They could expect him in two weeks.

"Anne, that's wonderful news!" said Lydia. "It will be so good to have him back. Have you told Father and Mother? And Grandad will want to know."

Anne shook her head. "The telegram arrived right before you did," she said happily. "I've barely had time to think about it myself. I just want to have it be my good news for a little while."

"I'll keep my mouth shut," Lydia assured her. She reached over and squeezed Anne's arm. "I'm so happy for you."

A comfortable quiet fell as they ate. Lydia kept glancing at her younger sister, who was positively glowing with happiness. Anne and Ned, another love at first sight pair. A courtship full of longing and clandestine, romantic meetings. Exchanging of tokens. Then the tragic separation. Lydia had always wondered how her quiet little sister had had the energy for that much drama. Lydia and Van Schelven met across desks and on piers. They exchanged opinions and ideas.

Trust and a good partnership, and some friendly affection. Was that enough?

"So have you any news?" Anne asked, ever polite. "How is work?"

"Mr. Van Schelven proposed to me," Lydia replied, setting down her sandwich. "That's the big news from yesterday."

"Did you accept?"

"No, I've been ducking him all day. That's why I came here for lunch. Oh, and, uh, to see you. Of course."

"Of course," said Anne, grinning crookedly.

They were quiet for a moment. Lydia sipped her tea and thought. About sharing Mr. Van Schelven's house. She wasn't entirely sure where he lived. Somewhere down the crooked lane just beyond the milliner's. It was the direction he always headed in after work. Lydia had a hard time imagining herself in Anne's place, embroidering curtains and making sandwiches. Anne chose not to keep servants. But Lydia could. Why, managing a staff couldn't be much different from managing employees. The thought made her feel a bit better about her lack of wifely skills. She could simply hire a woman with such skills.

"Have you mentioned this to Father and Mother?" Anne asked, offering up a plate of little cakes.

"You bake now, as well?" Lydia asked, taking one. Anne just shrugged modestly.

"Something to do," she replied. "So, have you talked to Mother? To Father?"

Lydia shook her head. "There's nothing to talk to them about yet," she said, eating her cake in two bites. "I haven't accepted the proposal, have I? These are delicious, by the way."

"But Liddie," said Anne seriously, "don't you think they'd at least like to know that Mr. Van Schelven-"

The clock on the mantel daintily chimed the hour, cutting Anne off and saving Lydia from replying. Lydia did not think she needed to tell her parents anything at the moment. They might take it wrong, think the wrong thing about her business trips, her workdays. Think that she and Mr. Van Schelven were up to some nonsense. And even if they didn't, they'd probably still ask all sorts of questions that she didn't want to answer.

"Thanks for lunch," said Lydia, standing. Anne followed suit. "I have to get back to work."

"Are you going to talk to Mr. Van Schelven?" Anne asked as she walked Lydia to the door. "Or do you intend to hide from him all day?"

In a split second, as she put on her hat, Lydia made her decision. It seemed inevitable, somehow. Years of business had taught her to trust that feeling when she got it, the feeling that a deal was a good one or not.

"I'm going to talk to him," Lydia replied. And back to the cannery she went.

0–0

Lydia entered her office to find Mr. Van Schelven already there. He nodded to her, and then went back to the pile of papers he was working through. Reports from the coast, it looked like. Instead of taking her usual seat, Lydia pulled over a rickety footstool from the corner and settled herself at Mr. Van Schelven's elbow. This way they were at eye level. Lydia even had to look up a little.

"Good afternoon," Mr. Van Schelven said, looking at her closely, uncertainly. Lydia held his gaze, trying to find some kind of answer in his eyes. Some thunderbolt, some sign from on high, something remarkable.

But it was just George Van Schelven staring back at her. Just like always. Solidly present. Lydia took a breath and decided it was enough.

"I accept," she said.

"You what?" he asked, lowering the file he was reading to his lap.

"I'll marry you," she told him.

"You'll what?"

Lydia held up a hand. "Stop," she said. "I don't want to play this game again."

Mr. Van Schelven laughed, from deep in his barrel chest. He tossed the paperwork onto the desk and reached for her hands. His were warm and strong against her cool and slim ones. Lydia swallowed. He'd never touched her for this long before.

"Well then," he said, smiling at her in such a way she couldn't help but return it, "I'm very happy to hear it. And this is for you."

He reached into his vest pocket and pulled out a ring. "I've, ah, been saving this for a bit. Found it on our last trip inland. For if...for when...well. It's yours now."

Lydia watched him slide a slim silver ring onto her hand. It was set with a tiny sapphire. Since their trip inland? He'd been thinking about proposing that long?

"Thank you," Lydia said, watching the ring catch the light. "It's lovely."

For a long time they simply sat in Lydia's office, holding hands. They didn't really need to say anything. And the paperwork could wait.

0–0

"Are you sure about this?" Father asked.

"Yes," replied Lydia as she pulled on her nicest pair of white gloves. The two of them were in Grandad's office. It had been two days since George had proposed. There seemed no real point to waiting to marry. They'd get married in the office at Van Dort's Fish. The notary was going to be around anyway to finalize some contracts. The trip to the coast would be their honeymoon. No fuss, no church, no family drama. Now that Lydia had made her decision, she didn't want to wait to follow through.

Father and Mother had taken the news of her engagement quite well. Lydia figured that, given her unorthodox life choices so far, her parents didn't have the energy left to be surprised or to argue with her. And they liked George well enough, so far as she knew. At the very least they seemed to appreciate that Lydia liked him.

Lydia was wearing her trim ivory walking suit. It had pretty detailing on the waistband, lapels, and cuffs, and was by far the nicest one she had. She'd borrowed some pearl earrings from Mother and had let Catherine fashion her thick black hair into an elaborate top knot.

"Really?" said Father, coming over to stand beside her. He waved a hand at the room. "You really want to get married at the cannery?"

Lydia shrugged. "It seemed easiest," she replied. "There was no need for a fuss."

For a second it looked like Father was going to argue, but then he changed his mind. He gave a little sigh, and then a slow smile. "As you like," he told her.

Now she had only to wait. They were going to do the brief ceremony with the notary, then get back to business. Ten o'clock, they'd said. Ten minutes to go.

Lydia perched on the windowsill, while Father took a seat in the guest chair beside the desk.

"It suits you," Father remarked. Lydia cocked an eyebrow. "This, I mean. Getting married here. There's a lot to be said for avoiding a fuss."

He was looking at her fondly. Lydia fiddled with the buttons on her gloves. "Do you..." she began awkwardly, not sure how to ask what she wanted to know, "What do you think of—George is...I mean...this was awfully sudden..."

Father, expectant, encouraging, waited for a moment after she'd trailed off. "I think you'll be happy," he said at last, guessing correctly at what she'd been getting at. "Really. And that's all that really matters, right?"

Just then the door opened. Much to Lydia's surprise, in trooped her mother and her sisters. Father, looking just as surprised, stood to greet them. Catherine was carrying a vase filled with flowers from the garden at home. Mary had her little snapshot camera around her neck and satchel on her shoulder. Anne hefted a picnic basket.

"You...you really didn't need to come down," Lydia told them feebly. She watched as Catherine cleared a spot on Grandad's huge desk for the flowers, and Anne set her basket on the floor. "We were going to come back to the house for tea, and see you all then."

Mother reached up and took Lydia's face in her hands. "I refuse to miss seeing my first-born get married," she said, and immediately Lydia felt terrible. She honestly hadn't considered that her mother might want to come watch. How stupid of her.

"I didn't...I wasn't...I'm sorry, Mother," Lydia fumbled, but Mother shushed her kindly.

"Not to worry," Mother said. "You look beautiful, dear."

"Doesn't that hairstyle suit her?" Catherine asked from behind her floral arrangement. She set the heavy vase down with a thud, and set about fussing over the flowers until they were the way she wanted them. "Mary, throw that tablecloth over the sideboard, will you? Let's put the wine and candles over there."

Lydia bristled. "We're not doing all of that," she said, suddenly cross. "We're getting married by the notary." Honestly. It wasn't as if a marriage wasn't binding unless Pastor Galswells glowered and roared at you for hours and made you enact silly old rituals.

"It's just for _ambience_ , that's all," said Mary, arranging a pair of silver candlesticks just so on the sideboard. Between them she set a half-full carafe and two little glasses, making a sort of wedding tableau. "So shut up and let us do nice things for you, Liddie."

Without a choice, Lydia shut up and let her sisters do what they wanted. Flowers brightened Grandad's desk. The wine carafe and candlesticks glinted in the morning sunshine coming through the window. Mary was taking snaps of everything, with Father trying to get out of her way at every turn. Anne had unpacked her picnic basket, and had set a small cake on the far side of the desk.

"Fruitcake," she said to Lydia with a smile, brushing off her fingers and stowing the basket under the desk.

"She sure is," remarked Catherine, giving Lydia a playful pinch on her way to the sideboard to inspect Mary's handiwork. "Also, we baked you a fruitcake for your wedding because you like them."

"Thanks," Lydia said. The office felt small and crowded with everyone in there. The smells of roses and cake and wine all wafted together. Underneath it all was the fishy smell of the cannery. Mother was beside her, and reached to take her hand. Lydia looked down at her mother's face, and managed a grin.

They'd gone ahead and made a big fuss anyway, no matter what Lydia had insisted upon. It was very sweet of them.

It was five minutes to ten. She could hear men talking out on the main floor. The notary must have arrived. Through the general hum she was sure she made out George's voice, Grandad's. They'd be in any moment. She took a deep breath.

"Here, these are for you," said Anne, standing at Lydia's elbow. She handed over a small wooden box. "It's your turn."

Lydia opened the box to find a tiepin with dried flowers attached. They looked like they might crumble if she breathed on them too hard.

Roses for eternal love. Jasmine for attachment. The last time she'd seen these Anne had worn them on her own wedding day. A memory of two important weddings. And now it seemed Anne was turning them into a family tradition.

Lydia glanced at her father. He was studying her, waiting to see what she'd do. The two of them had gotten along better recently than they had in years. Lydia was willing to admit it was because she had lightened up, been willing to move on. The dead bride. Lydia's doubts about her father's sincerity. About her parents' marriage.

She did not want to think about all that today. Today was a good day. Her day.

Gently as she could, Lydia pinned the flowers to her lapel. They'd be the only ones she carried. When she looked up again Father was smiling at her. She smiled back. Father smoothed down his tie and excused himself to go tell the men that they were ready. Mother squeezed Lydia's hand.

"Wait! Hold still!" Mary said from the corner near the hat rack. She was aiming her camera. "Everybody! Hold still! I want a family snap! Look at me!"

Everyone did as instructed. Father had his hand on the doorknob, just about to leave. Catherine was by the sideboard, flashing a proud grin. Lydia, wedding flowers pinned to her lapel, stood up to her full height and held her chin high. She put one arm around her mother and the other around Anne. The two of them hardly came up to her shoulders. There was a pause, Mary muttering to herself, and then they heard a click and a snap. Mary looked up and grinned broadly at them.

"Perfect!" she said. " _Now_ you can get married, Liddie."

Lydia smiled. Mother gave her waist a gentle squeeze before she and Anne went to join Catherine at the sideboard. Lydia smoothed back an escaping curl, righted her lapels, and stood up tall and straight.

Now she could get married. At her nod, Father opened the door to let in the men.


	2. Catherine

**Catherine**

On the morning of her wedding, Catherine Van Dort, cannery fortune heiress, locally famed beauty, future countess, was huddled up inside a wardrobe.

"You're behaving like a child," her older sister Lydia said. "Get out of there."

"I'll come out when I'm ready!" Catherine spat.

"Oh, Liddie, leave her alone," came her younger sister Anne's voice.

Lydia tugged on the door. Catherine held on from inside. Through the heavy door she heard Lydia mutter something extremely unladylike.

"Darling?" Mother said gently. Catherine heard a rustle and a little tap. Probably Mother putting a hand against the wardrobe door. Inside, Catherine mirrored the movement. "What's wrong?"

How to answer such a question? Catherine slumped as much as she could in her old-fashioned wedding gown. She wanted to cry.

She'd been fine! Perfectly fine, for the whole day so far. Excited and happy and thrilled and laughing with her sisters and her mother, all here to help her prepare for her wedding. And then, all of a sudden, one of her moods had struck.

These dark little thunderclouds had followed her for as long as she could remember. She'd bubble and bounce along just fine, all sunshine, and then every bad feeling and every worry would descend at once like a summer storm. They always passed quickly, leaving no trace, but they were intense while they lasted.

Catherine was having one now. Unable to think of anywhere else to hide, she'd hopped into the wardrobe and slammed shut the door behind her, leaving her family aghast.

"I need a moment!" she said, clinging desperately to the latch in case Mother tried to open the door.

"You haven't got long!" Mary, the youngest, called. "Twenty minutes to go!" Mother shushed her.

"Take a moment, dear," said Mother comfortingly. "We'll wait for you at the grand staircase, all right?"

"Yes," Catherine said, her voice small.

When all she could hear was silence from outside the wardrobe, Catherine slowly eased open the door. They'd all left. With much difficulty, Catherine maneuvered herself out of the wardrobe and into the room. She shook out her voluminous skirts as best as she was able, and then made her way to the mirror.

Now, without chatter and the comforting presence of her mother and sisters, she felt lonely. She wished they hadn't left. Her suite of rooms seemed even bigger and more intimidating now that she was alone.

Just before she'd felt that crushing feeling and had put herself in the wardrobe, she'd been thinking about how she was in a _castle_. She was marrying into a family that had a _castle_. Also a country estate, townhouses in two cities, an apartment in a third, and a cottage in America. Catherine felt her head begin to spin again as she made the inventory. She was used to one house.

Despite years of training up from her grandmothers—Catherine had always been groomed as the most likely prospect for marrying into nobility, plus she was the only one of her sisters who actually thought arranging a seating order based on precedence was a fun challenge—she still felt unprepared for all this. Being Teddy's wife she could certainly handle. Why, she was over the moon about being married to him, getting to see him every day, sharing a life together. But being a countess...that was entirely different.

Slowly, carefully, Catherine adjusted the wreath of orange blossoms in her hair. One side had begun to wilt a little, she noticed. Her hair was set elaborately and high on her head. Catherine was pleased. Not least because her hairdo was the one and only battle in the wedding planning that she'd won.

She had cheerfully given in to the Van Lynden family on the food, the music, the venue, the flowers, the dress. Bowing to centuries of tradition and to Teddy's formidable Great Aunt Cecily. And she really hadn't minded. Much. But she had insisted on getting her hair done fashionably and flatteringly.

Catherine sighed, and looked herself up and down in the mirror. Her wedding dress, the most important dress of her life, wasn't fashionable or flattering.

As a teenager she'd spent many an idle hour planning her dream wedding. And after she'd become engaged she'd scoured magazines and filled little notebooks with sketches and ideas. Always, the dress was the centerpiece. Catherine had dreamed of ivory satin. Of a form-fitting waist and gauzy sleeves, of a delicate line on her skirt. Instead, here she was wearing this...thing.

Great Aunt Cecily had spoken so reverently of the beautiful Van Lynden gown that Catherine had been intrigued. But last spring, when she'd seen it on the dressmaker's dummy here at the castle, she'd been horrified. While she could appreciate, intellectually, the value of a traditional Dutch wedding costume which dated from 1781 and still had a matching bonnet, Catherine felt no desire to be caught dead wearing it.

"Please," Catherine had whispered to Mother, tears in her eyes, "Oh please don't make me wear that hideous hat."

They'd lost, of course, but for the hat. Van Lynden brides had been wearing this floral monstrosity for generations. It was only fair that Catherine go through the ritual as well. Once more she examined herself in the mirror. And once more she wanted to cry. This dress wasn't even _white_. Her full bosom was covered over with a neckerchief which made her look like a puffed-up chicken. And panniers, even modest ones like these, did _nothing_ for her. They'd had to let out the bust, waist, and hips for her quite a bit, and shorten the hem nearly six inches. Great Aunt Cecily had made sure to mention how small-boned, slim, and aristocratic Van Lynden brides usually were more than once.

 _It's for Teddy_ , she reminded herself, taking a deep breath. _You're marrying Teddy, that's what's important here_.

Her heart gave a little flutter at the thought of her fiance. They'd known each other for almost three years and still she fluttered over him. She just wished she could be a glamorous bride. Instead of looking like she belonged in a pageant about eighteenth century Holland.

But Teddy loved her. He'd think she was beautiful no matter what she wore. Her heart swelled at the thought. Borne on a wave of confidence and affection, Catherine smoothed down her skirts, righted her neckerchief, and left the room, heading for the staircase where she would meet Mother and her sisters.

Or at least, she thought she was heading for the staircase. Within moments of leaving her room she was lost.

Back when Grandmamma had paraded her in front of the former count, Teddy's great-uncle, they'd been at the charming country home. This place was the Van Lynden castle. Centuries old, with a chapel on the grounds and a dungeon somewhere. Catherine didn't like it at all. It was gloomy and cold and dark, even in May.

But, of course, it was traditional for the count to be married in the chapel on the grounds. Catherine was happy that they'd be living in the country place after they were wed. She continued to wander, beginning to get warm under her arms. That panicky feeling was creeping up her throat again.

"How am I supposed to be Countess Van Lynden," she asked a suit of armor in a corner,"if I can't even find my way around the castle?"

She didn't receive a reply.

Two more turns and she found herself at the end of a long, broad corridor. Soft lights were lit in elaborate wall sconces. All along each wall, she could see now, were picture frames.

She'd wound up in the portrait gallery.

Catherine slowly made her way past Theodore's ancestors. Centuries upon centuries were represented. This was even bigger than the Everglot gallery. She had all of her Everglot ancestors memorized, after years of strolling up and down the gallery at Grandmother's house.

But the Van Lynden clan...she'd never in a million years remember all this. Despite Great Aunt Cecily's coaching sessions, and Teddy's stories. As she passed the generations of this venerable family, of which she was the newest member, Catherine read the nameplates and studied the faces.

Van Lyndens, as a rule, tended toward tall and slender, with oval faces and large eyes. Most were blond, but many were auburn-haired. There was the previous count, James Van Lynden, who might have married Catherine. She couldn't help shuddering. She felt a little guilty for being glad he'd died, but she couldn't help it. In his youth he hadn't been bad-looking, though. Probably still not very nice. Even then there was something bad-tempered about the set of his mouth, the way he stared out of the frame.

The next portrait along was a family one. There was James again, maybe in his early twenties. He was posed with his brothers and his sister, Cecily.

Catherine peered at Great Aunt Cecily, as she'd looked when she was Catherine's age. She'd been gorgeous. Auburn hair, tall and stately, lovely eyes. In the portrait she was off to one side, head tilted toward James. Standing awkwardly with one hand behind his back and with a pained expression on his face was Teddy's grandfather, also named Theodore. So that left the youngest brother, the one who'd gone to Canada after he'd lost his wife and daughter. Maxwell, the nameplate said. He did look like the odd one out. Shorter than the rest, with a tousled sort of look, and much darker hair.

Maxwell was in the next portrait, too. He was posed with two women, one younger and one older. That must be the wife and daughter who had died. Mrs. Van Lynden was seated on a low chair, her skirts fanned out about her. A plain face, but kind eyes. Leaning against her mother was a girl of about ten or so. She had dark hair like her father, and she had the Van Lynden face that Catherine had come to recognize so well.

Emily, the nameplate said. Catherine wondered what precisely had happened to her. There were precious few daughters in the Van Lynden family.

But it was just an idle thought. Aware that time was quickly passing and that she had somewhere to be—provided she could _find_ it—Catherine passed the rest of the portraits without really looking at them. She'd have plenty of leisure to explore later. She held her skirts out of the way, her feet beginning to ache in her stupid embroidered shoes. At least they weren't made of wood.

"Catherine!"

She turned. It was Anne, at the other end of the corridor. Anne waved.

"I found her!" Anne said over her shoulder. Mary and Lydia appeared moments later.

"On a tour of your castle, your ladyship?" Lydia asked with a grin.

"Great Aunt Cecily is going to burst a blood vessel if you don't hurry up," Mary said. "She says Van Lynden brides are always on time."

Did Great Aunt Cecily _never_ shut up? Catherine sighed. Lydia came up to her and held out a small box.

"You jumped in the wardrobe before I could give you this," said Lydia. "I wanted it to be more...I don't know, ceremonial, but that's not how it worked out. It's your turn to wear them."

Catherine opened the box to find a brooch of molded glass. Inside the glass were dried flowers, blue and white, fragile and held together with faded ribbon and a tie-pin with the Van Dort crest.

"I had to have them put inside another pin," Lydia explained. "They were falling apart. But you can still tell what they are."

Catherine nodded, fingering the brooch. At last, something of _her_ family to have today. She'd quite forgotten about these. A dried sprig of jasmine. A dried rose. She blinked away a couple of tears.

"Here, pin it on my kerchief, just here," Catherine instructed. "No one will notice a little hole there." Her life was not worth putting pinholes in a dress that was over a hundred years old.

"Aunt Cecily might," Mary said cheerfully as Lydia bent to fix the brooch. "Seriously, I feel sorry for you, Catherine. That lady makes Grandmother Everglot look like the sweetest old dear in the world."

Catherine laughed. She reached and took both Anne and Liddie by the arms. Mary took Anne's other hand.

"Come on," she said, bolstered and cheered by having her sisters with her. "Let's go get me married, girls."

0–0

The whole ceremony was a blur. Afterward Catherine found herself pronounced a wife and a countess and could not for the life of her remember any of what had just been said or done. She didn't even remember the walk with Father down the aisle. It was as if she had just been whirled through some sort of tornado and then deposited at the chapel door with Teddy, suddenly his wife.

Teddy certainly looked pleased. He'd gotten away with wearing normal clothes, as her sisters had. A trim morning suit. He was so handsome. So perfect and fun and lively. Hand-in-hand the two of them stood, just looking at one another, the May sunshine warming them. A sweet breeze was coming from the orchard on the far side of the lawn. Catherine felt entirely peaceful, as she always did in Teddy's presence. The first absolutely perfect moment of their marriage.

But their little moment didn't last long before their guests began streaming from the chapel behind them.

"There's a gift for you in our room," Teddy whispered, so close to her ear it made her shiver all down her neck. Or maybe she shivered because he'd said "our" room. "A wedding present. I'll meet you outside the hall once you've freshened up, Kitty."

The creak of wheelchair wheels came from behind them, and Catherine flinched. After the past two years, and this week in particular, that creak had become the most ominous sound in the world. It heralded the arrival of Great Aunt Cecily, always pushed along by a tired-looking maid.

"I'll go find Mother!" she whispered to Teddy. Now she could hear Aunt Cecily as well, her quavering complaining tones on the breeze. "I'll change into my reception dress and then we can take the photographs."

Catherine welcomed the excuse to take a little breather as well as to change her clothes. She could see the photographer bringing his equipment into the great hall for wedding portraits. There was no way, _no way_ , that she would allow herself to be photographed in this dress.

"I don't dare give you a kiss in front of everyone," Catherine whispered as the wheelchair neared, struggling in the grass, "but I _really_ want to."

Teddy grinned and squeezed her hand. "Same here," he told her. Then he winked. "I see your mother with mine by the door. You go, I'll talk to Aunt Cecily."

"You're brave, my love," said Catherine. "I'll see you soon!"

She set off back to the chapel, deftly staying out of Aunt Cecily's range. She couldn't wait to get out of this dress.

0–0

Catherine gasped when she reached the bridal suite, Mother right behind her. On the bed was laid a reception gown. A _gorgeous_ reception gown. Ivory satin and gauze and lovely sash to nip in her waist. Just the dress she'd wanted. _Just_ the perfect dress.

"Oh, Mother!" she cried, picking up the dress and holding it up in front of her. "Mother, look at this!"

"Lovely, isn't it?"

"Did you know?"

"Someone had to give your measurements to the dressmaker," Mother said with a laugh. "But it was Theodore's idea. I'm so pleased you're happy."

Catherine set the dress reverently back on the bed, and then wrapped her mother in a hug. Mother petted Catherine's hair, just the way she always had when Catherine was a little girl.

"Let's get you out of this, shall we?" Mother said, turning Catherine around so she could begin the tedious process of unlacing the stays.

Off came the horrible wedding costume, off came the layers of petticoat, off came the corset with saddlebags. On went the gorgeous, perfect gown, with long gloves and earrings to match. Catherine made sure to pin the flower brooch to her new gown. Mother noticed, and smiled to see her wearing the wedding flowers.

"Family tradition," said Catherine happily, making sure the pin was straight.

"You look absolutely beautiful, Catherine," Mother said, looking her up and down. She reached out to touch Catherine's cheek. "It's perfect for you. Your ladyship."

"Oh my!" cried Catherine with a laugh. She pressed her fingers to her mouth. "Oh my goodness, I am, aren't I? I'm a ladyship."

It was going to take some getting used to. But now, in her new dress, and with her new wedding band on her finger, she felt much more capable.

0–0

Catherine made her way down the grand staircase feeling like a queen.

As promised, Teddy was waiting for her by the huge doors to the hall. He watched her approach, and Catherine felt as though she must be glowing. _There_ was the expression she'd wanted to see as she walked down the aisle.

"Kitty, you're gorgeous," Teddy said, reaching for her hands as she neared him. "You like the dress?"

"I love it, you sweet old thing," Catherine replied, running her hands across the sash lovingly. "It was so thoughtful."

Teddy grinned, and waved his hand. "I saw the look on your face when you saw the Van Lynden wedding costume," he told her. "And you'd been such a good sport about everything else. My pleasure, Kitty. Shall we have our portrait done? Fred's just over here."

The photographer had set up in an alcove near the staircase. He was someone Teddy had served with in the war. Since it was her wedding day, Catherine tried not to notice this too much, but the photographer was ridiculously nice looking. In a rough and ruddy way, contrasted with Teddy's aristocratic good looks. He was younger than Catherine and Teddy, perhaps Mary's age, and his muscles were obvious even inside his nice suit.

"All set over here, lieutenant," said the photographer. "Uh, your lordship, I mean."

"We've been in a foxhole together, Fred," said Teddy cheerfully as he and Catherine got into position in front of the backdrop the photographer had set up. "You can call me Theodore."

"No I can't," said Fred amiably, smiling a disarming, boyish smile. He fixed his smile on Catherine. "You changed your dress, your ladyship! Shame. It was a real statement. You looked like the girl on the hot cocoa tin."

Where other countesses might have been offended at such familiarity, Catherine just laughed merrily, and Teddy joined in. "I did, didn't I?" she said. "I'd much rather be preserved for posterity dressed like a normal person, though."

After the photograph was finished, Catherine and Theodore finally made their entrance at their reception. For the first time in her life, though certainly not the last, Catherine was announced as Countess Van Lynden. She waited for panic that didn't come, and she was relieved when it didn't. This was right. She could do this. This was her hall, her party. She smiled up at Teddy, who was grinning back down at her.

"Let's make the rounds, Kitty," said Teddy, taking her arm.

All of Catherine's grandparents were drinking champagne near the buffet table close to the main doors.

"There's the happy couple!" said Grandad, seeing them first.

"It was a marvelous ceremony, your lordship," said Grandmother to Teddy, smiling. It took Catherine aback to see it. Grandmother _never_ smiled. But now the smile was turned on her, as well. Catherine couldn't help feeling a little nervous.

"And your ladyship," Grandmother added. Catherine nodded, head high.

"Well done, you!" said Grandmamma, pulling Catherine into a champagne-scented hug. She kissed her on both cheeks. "A countess! My own little Catherine!"

Grandfather didn't say anything, but he did nod to her solemnly, raising his glass in a little salute. Catherine had always had the funniest feeling that Grandfather liked her the best out of his grandchildren, but she couldn't think why. Beyond the fact that she looked like an Everglot, of course. But it was still nice to know he cared. Or was at least paying attention.

After they'd excused themselves, Catherine pointed out her brothers-in-law over by the terrace doors. Lydia's husband, George, and Anne's husband, Ned, were chatting. They both looked up as the newlyweds approached. There were kisses and handshakes all around. As George embraced her, she was struck yet again by how much he looked like an aging pirate, with his gold tooth and strong build. And poor Ned, back from the war. He looked paler and older now, and was even quieter. He'd lost an arm in an incident he refused to discuss, and the sleeve of his suit coat was neatly pinned up.

Catherine understood his silence. Teddy had lost his left eye in the war. He'd explained briefly what had happened, a bomb was involved, but he seemed keen not to talk too much about his service, and Catherine didn't blame him. If it were her she'd want to forget all about it, and put the nastiness behind her. The scars on his face had faded, too, you'd really only notice if you were looking closely. And his glass eye was a good match for his real one.

The three men fell into easy conversation. Catherine scanned the crowd, looking for her sisters, and spotted Lydia across the room.

"I'll leave you three to it," said Catherine, and made her way toward Lydia.

As she neared she nearly groaned. Great Aunt Cecily was holding court at the far end of the room, near a gargantuan fireplace. As ever, she was seated in her wooden wheelchair and swathed in furs against the chill of the hall. She had her ebony walking stick across her lap. Mary leaned against the fireplace, and Anne had taken a small upholstered chair, with Lydia perched on the arm. Catherine stood beside Anne's chair.

"We're being regaled with family stories," Lydia told her in a low voice. "Have you heard the one about the count who built this castle? Ruled the peasants with an iron fist? Beloved patriarch? No other count will ever in a thousand years live up to his example?"

"Ugh, only a thousand times," replied Catherine in the same tone.

Anne reached for Catherine's hand. "What a beautiful dress," she said, squeezing her fingers.

"A gift from Theodore," said Catherine proudly, doing a little pose. "Gorgeous, isn't it?"

"In my day," said Aunt Cecily, who had been watching Catherine's every move, "Van Lynden brides wore the costume all through the festivities. It's traditional."

"You were supposed to have jewelry, too. The Van Lynden jewels," added Mary, "They were stolen. We've been hearing all about it."

Now that story was new. Catherine raised her eyebrows, but didn't ask. She didn't want to know.

"Shameful," said Cecily with a nod. Then she sighed, a long-suffering sound. "To be expected when the nobility marries the lower classes. I warned my brother about it. Just as I warned Theodore."

There was an awkward pause. Everyone was looking at Catherine, who just smiled sweetly. She refused to rise. She was in far too good a mood, felt far too pretty and confident, and she was the Countess officially now. She could well afford to be happy enough to include everyone in her joy.

So Catherine bent and pressed her lips against Aunt Cecily's papery cheek. The older woman gasped, affronted into silence.

"It's lovely to have someone who knows all of these stories!" said Catherine gaily, taking up the older woman's birdlike hands in hers. "Otherwise we'd never know all of these old secrets. Thank you for keeping my sisters company, Great Aunt Cecily. I'd best go find my parents now."

Before she turned to leave she winked at Mary, who was grinning. Feeling triumphant, Catherine swanned her way across the hall. Maybe she was imagining being able to feel Great Aunt Cecily's eyes boring into her back as she left.

Father and Mother were with Teddy's mother near the window which looked out onto the lawn. Catherine's new mother-in-law was a shy, retiring woman. And incredibly tiny. Her frame was small and she was at least two inches shorter than Catherine, who barely stood five-foot in stockings. She must have been positively swimming in the Van Lynden gown. Where Mother was just quiet and serious, Beatrice was timid and shy. She barely spoke above a whisper, and kept to corners. Father and Mother seemed to be carrying the conversation, and Beatrice looked grateful for their protection against other guests.

"There she is," said Mother, smiling softly as Catherine approached. "Doesn't she look beautiful, Beatrice?"

"Oh yes," said Beatrice faintly. She looked as happy as Catherine had ever seen her, though. She looked Catherine up and down. "I'm so pleased you're a member of our family."

"The pleasure's mine," Catherine assured her. She had the urge to embrace her mother-in-law the way she would her own mother, but she feared crushing poor Beatrice accidentally. So she settled for nodding pleasantly.

"You look very nice," Father told her. "That's a lovely dress."

Pleased, Catherine did a little turn so he could see the entire ensemble.

"Much better than my wedding dress, isn't it?" she asked in a low voice.

"Much," he admitted, with a small smile. "But you looked very pretty then, too. Like the girl in the hot cocoa advertisement."

He looked down at her with such an affectionate expression that she felt as if he'd hugged her. For a moment they stood together, looking out at the crowds, not talking. Father had always been so awkward with her. Like she was some exotic butterfly. A butterfly from another planet. Father was a sweet old thing, he really was, but he was also very uptight.

No, that wasn't entirely fair. Catherine sneaked a look up at him, studying his profile as he listened to Mother and Beatrice chat. She knew he worried about her constantly. All the flirting and traveling and laughing and dresses, all the things that gave her life color, were things he didn't really understand. That maybe he was a bit afraid of, given how straitlaced their village was. And what had happened to that girl he'd known, years ago.

He loved her, though. They were very different people and they'd probably never really understand each other, but that was all right. They could keep trying. It could be different, now that she was married, taken care of.

Catherine touched him on the elbow to get his attention. "I love you, Father," she said simply. He was quiet for just a moment, she saw him swallow.

"I love you, too," he replied.

"Ah, I knew there was a gorgeous countess around here somewhere!" Teddy said, coming up next to her and putting an arm about her waist. Catherine beamed up at him. "Lost her for a bit."

"Funny, my dashing husband was missing for a while, too!" she said.

"Dashing husband?" Teddy repeated. "Glad I got here before he turned up."

Catherine swatted at him playfully as she laughed. He always made her laugh. She looked over at her parents and mother-in-law to see all of them looking on fondly, if a little bemusedly. Then came the sound of the squeaking wheels across the stone and carpet. Everyone, even Teddy, shared the same hunted look.

"It must be time for the toasts," said Mother blandly, her heavy-lidded eyes giving away her annoyance. "The toasts are always first at a Van Lynden wedding."

"I'm sure Cecily will tell us," said Father, matching her tone. Then he looked about. "Where did Beatrice go?"

Teddy's mother had disappeared. Catherine hoped one day her mother-in-law would share her escapist secrets.

0–0

The wedding party went on far into the night in the great hall, but Catherine and Teddy retired early as they dared. The guests could get along just fine without them. And they had been desperate to be alone together at long last.

"This is just like the night we met," Catherine said dreamily.

"I seem to remember being dressed the night we met," Teddy remarked. Catherine pinched him gently.

"Oh, you know what I mean," Catherine went on, snuggling up more closely, breathing him in. "Just being with one another for hours and hours, talking and laughing."

"Now that can be every day," Teddy said.

They were curled up together in the huge four-poster in their bridal suite. Catherine had put on her beautiful new peignoir set, and Teddy wore blue silk pajamas. They were working their way through a bottle of champagne. Catherine had imagined being able to show off her new nightgown for her new husband, but he'd simply helped her out of her dress and that had been it. Afterward they'd donned their nightclothes and settled in among the throws and pillows.

If Catherine could purr, she'd have been purring. No wonder Anne was in such a good mood now that Ned was home all the time.

"I thought about that often, while we were apart so much," said Catherine. Teddy nuzzled at her hair. "That night we met, I mean."

"I did, as well," he replied. "I almost didn't come in person, you know. I was going to write a letter. But then I decided it would be more polite to explain to Mrs. Van Dort in person that Uncle James had died and the engagement was off. I'm thankful I did."

"You shook my hand when you met me instead of kissing it," she said, setting her empty glass aside so that she could put her arms around him. The silk of his shirt was soft against her cheek. "And you called me friendly before you called me pretty."

It had been the most flattering thing she'd ever heard from a man, and that was saying something. Upon seeing the new Count Van Lynden, Grandmamma had immediately sent for Catherine to come meet him. She'd dragged her feet a bit and moaned about it some. Anne had just gotten married and they'd just sent Lydia and Ned off on a train, and Catherine just wasn't in the mood to be offered up like a treat on a tray. But then she saw Theodore, and it was just like Mother had always said about the moment she'd met Father.

Something in Catherine had simply said, _Yes, that's the one_. And so they had started to talk. And talk some more. And then the entire evening was gone and Catherine was head over heels. And Teddy felt the same. He was such a gentleman. They hadn't even kissed for a day or two. Catherine had never kissed anyone before. She'd never wanted to. Now Teddy was the only person she could ever imagine kissing ever again.

"What's funny?" Teddy asked. Catherine looked up at him. He was grinning at her fondly, his eyes soft. "You're giggling to yourself."

Catherine felt her cheeks go warm. "I just love you. So much," she said.

"I love you, too, Kitty."

Contentedly they sighed, and snuggled up closer. The fire crackled cheerily, and the scent of the blossoms around the room, the roses she'd asked for, lent freshness and charm.

"May I ask you a question, darling?" Catherine asked at length.

Teddy looked at her expectantly over the rim of his champagne flute. "Certainly," he said.

"Do you take out your false eye to sleep?"

"Yes," Teddy replied. He leaned and set his glass aside before putting his arms around her. "But I wasn't planning on sleeping yet. Were you?"

"Oh no," said Catherine luxuriously. "Not anytime soon."


	3. Mary

**Mary**

It was a cloudy November day. The threat of rain, or maybe snow, hung heavy in the sky above the bare black treetops. Mary Van Dort, the youngest of the Van Dort girls, was turning nineteen years old. Actually-she checked her slim gold wristwatch- _had_ turned. She'd been nineteen for about three hours now. Didn't feel much different than eighteen. She did wish she'd been born in a warmer month, though. Then she wouldn't be as cold out here on the front porch.

Her parents were throwing her a little party. Just an immediate family, tea and cakes sort of affair. It had only been going on for an hour and Mary's patience was wearing thin with the family togetherness. Hence being outside on the porch. Mary leaned against the railing and crossed her arms, tucking her hands against herself for warmth.

The crush of her sisters was overwhelming. When one added all of their husbands and now a baby nephew, it became entirely mad. Over the past two years Mary had become accustomed to the relative quiet of the house, to feeling rather like an only child. All of the noise was hers and hers alone. For the first time in her life, Mary had her parents all to herself. As soon as her older sisters descended, though, it was childhood all over again. Everybody seemed to forget she was there, even Dad and Mother, so pleased were they all to see each other. And on her birthday, too.

Mary huffed and pulled her sweater more closely around herself. Freddy never forgot about her. When she was with Freddy she felt like the very center of the universe. With him, Mary wasn't the skinny youngest Van Dort girl, the one with the mousy hair and pointy chin. Instead, she became an interesting person, someone who wrote, someone who liked photography. She became a desirable woman. Mary smoothed down the skirt of her nice peach dress. They'd been seeing each other over a year. Freddy had stayed in the village when his photography assignment in the area ended, just for her sake.

Picturing his face made her warm from the inside out. She grinned even as she hunched against the chill, looking down the drive again. Maybe this would be the first time he'd forgotten her. He was really late. She'd told him two o'clock. When she'd come out onto the porch to wait for him (as well as take a break from her sisters), the hall clock had just gone quarter to three.

Oh, Fred. In this dreary old place he was like walking sunshine. And a month younger than her, even. There was nobody in the world like Freddy.

She'd seen him first at Catherine's wedding. There had been an enormous champagne fountain on the buffet table at the reception. Mother had said Mary could taste one glass. Mary had been sneaking her third toward the end of the party when she saw him.

It was the most visceral reaction she'd ever had to looking at a boy. She'd never forget the feeling. A zing had gone from her eyeballs down to her stomach, through her hips and then down to her toes. Her knees almost buckled. She'd gulped some champagne to steady herself, and then held her glass under the fountain for a refill as she stared.

He'd been just outside the doorway into the reception room, in half-profile, bent over as he packed up his camera equipment. Ah, so he was the wedding photographer. She hadn't been able to see what kind of camera he was using, but he had a lot of kit. He also had golden-red hair, was taller than even Dad, and built like a tree. All of the other men she'd ever known were impossibly thin or very rotund. This young man was all bicep, all thick wrists and neck.

"Something, isn't he?"

Mary had turned, her head a little swimmy, to see Catherine and Theodore beside her. Catherine, who'd spoken, was grinning at her.

Mary, flustered, had tried to sip her champagne in a sophisticated way, but ended up tilting too far. Champagne ran in little rivulets down her chin. A few bubbles went up her nose, and she coughed. Gently, Theodore had taken her glass from her.

"His name is Fred," Catherine went on, with an arm around Mary's waist. Heavily, Mary returned the gesture. "He's a photographer. Teddy knew him in the army."

Catherine said something else, but Mary didn't remember what it was. Actually, she remembered very little of the rest of the evening. Next thing she knew she was snorting herself awake early the next morning in the guest suite she was sharing with her parents at the castle. All the rest of the day she'd been plagued by an acidic headache and sick stomach, and didn't have any room in her sore head for thoughts of the photographer.

She thought about him from time to time over the next few weeks, though. Mostly remembering the feeling she'd had looking at him. And then, one day while she'd been shopping in the village, there he was again. He'd had a snapshot camera with him, and he was dressed casually, sleeves rolled up, no jacket. Mary had nearly passed out, he was so muscular and handsome. But she pulled herself together, trotted over, and introduced herself, right there in the town square. She made sure to drop Teddy's name.

From there, they were pals. They went on photography outings together. It took no time at all for the outings to become courting. They'd also very quickly added kissing and fooling about to their activity list—flatteringly, Freddy had admitted he'd felt a jolt the first time he laid eyes on her, too. Fred came by to see her at least once a week, and they'd sit on the porch or in the parlor. He'd been by for dinner nearly as often.

Fred was the best thing that had ever happened to her. But now, standing cold on the porch and missing her own birthday party, Mary growled to herself, _Fred Stieglitz, I'm going to murder yo_ _u._

But it seemed that to picture bludgeoning him was to summon him. To her mingled pleasure and annoyance and relief, she saw Freddy's jalopy come barreling down the narrow road from the direction of the village. In a spit of gravel the car turned up the drive, and then rumbled to a stop next to Teddy and Catherine's brand-new white Rolls Royce. He waved out the window. Fred always loved to make an entrance that allowed the world to know he'd arrived.

Freddy bounded from the car, up the path, up the steps, and onto the porch.

After a cry of, "Ahoy, there, birthday girl!", he picked her up and spun her about in a circle. Even though she was still annoyed, she hugged him back. She couldn't help herself. His big strong grasp was irresistible. The air between them was positively electric. Mary never got tired of it. Eagerly she returned his hello kiss. Then she pulled away and gave him a thwack on the shoulder.

"You're late, you fink!" she scolded. He wasn't even carrying a gift.

"Sorry, held up," Freddy replied, smiling that boyish disarming smile down at her. He stepped back a bit and held her by the shoulders, giving her the eye. "Look at you! Nice dress. _Very_ flattering."

Mary caught his hand just as it got south of her waist. "It's my birthday. You were supposed to be here at two, you big lunk. What were you held up with?"

Freddy shrugged carelessly. "Oh, my other girl. She's insatiable." Mary thwacked him again, and he laughed, pulling her into an embrace. She embraced him back, giving his backside a mostly affectionate swat just for good measure.

"You're very naughty, Freddy," Mary said into his chest. Freddy's hands slid down over her bottom and squeezed. This time she let him. Now that he was here, holding her and acting as a very nice windbreak, Mary was much warmer. She felt as though she never wanted to be anywhere else.

She looked up into Fred's face to tell him so only to find him looking over her head. She watched as a broad grin broke over his face. Freddy removed one hand from her bottom to wave.

"Afternoon, Mr. Van Dort!" he called cheerfully. Mary turned to find a very darkly frowning Dad looking at them from one of the side windows in the parlor. After a long moment he raised a hand in what could have been greeting. As his expression did not change, Mary couldn't really tell. After a moment he disappeared from the window.

Why did Dad _always_ catch them on the porch? The two of them should've learned by now. Freddy, ever unperturbed, kept grinning. Mary pressed her face to his chest again to muffle her snorting giggles.

"I think we're wanted inside," Freddy said in his best posh voice. Which wasn't very good, actually. But Mary didn't care. Holding hands, they went into the house.

0—0

"You made out like a bandit, birthday girl," Fred said later, surveying the opened gifts on the tea table. Books, a new camera, a sweater, a little glass bird Catherine had bought for her in Venice. Everyone had been really generous. Everyone except Freddy.

Mary just sniffed.

"What?" Fred asked, as if he didn't know perfectly well what.

The party had been wonderful. Once Fred had arrived, Mary'd had the best time she could ever remember having at a birthday party. She and Freddy had sat close together on the sofa in the parlor, surrounded by her family. Even Lydia liked Fred. Very pregnant and very miserable, Lydia hadn't smiled about much lately. But Fred had made her grin a couple of times. He'd even held Anne's baby for a little while. There was chatter and laughter and everyone Mary loved all in the same room together. For some reason she was a lot less annoyed by them than she'd been earlier.

Now, after the presents had all been opened and her sisters had gone home, things were different. All the while Mary had kept wondering what her present from Fred was going to be. Last year, when they'd hardly known one another, he'd just brought her some flowers. But they were a year on, now. He knew what kind of underthings she owned, even. She deserved a thoughtful present.

Bupkis was what she'd received.

"Why are you so sore?" Freddy asked, his tone light, his smile constant. Mary refused to smile back. Not even when he poked her gently in the side. Fred looked to Mother and Dad, sitting in their respective chairs by the fireplace.

"Yes, what's wrong, Mary?" Dad asked. He was leaning back in his chair, teacup in hand, feet propped up on the ottoman.

"He didn't bring me a present!" Mary replied, jerking her chin at Fred.

"Of course I brought you a present!" Freddy said, pretending to be affronted. His grin gave him away. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a little box. He held it out to her. "Happy birthday, kid."

Mary opened the little box, curious. You never knew with Freddy. It could be a roll of film, cleverly disguised. A very intricately folded scarf. Stockings, maybe, rolled to their tiniest.

When she got the lid off of the box, she gasped. It was a diamond ring.

"You're kidding," Mary said flatly, meeting his eye.

"Nope."

"Yes."

"I'm not!"

Mary looked at her parents. Both of them looked as surprised as she felt. Slowly Dad put his teacup aside. Mother had a hand to her mouth, her expression unreadable.

"I'm not kidding," said Fred, taking Mary's hand. She was still staring at the ring, sparkling in its little velvet box. He directed his words at her parents.

"I love Mary," he told them. "This past year has been the best of my life. And I've appreciated your hospitality. I want to join the family. My folks aren't too thrilled I stayed out here in the middle of nowhere, but once they meet Mary they'll get it."

Mary took the ring out of the box. She looked from it to Fred and back again. He was looking at her, fond and warm and handsome.

"How about it?" he asked, using the tone he always did when asking her to go on yet another adventure. "Will you marry me?"

Mary let the huge grin she'd been holding back burst over her face. She slid the ring onto her finger.

"Yes," she cried, throwing her arms around him and giving him a big kiss, not even caring that her parents were sitting right there. "I'll marry you, you goofy old dope."

Fred laughed heartily and hugged her close. Over his broad shoulder she looked at her parents. They were hardly smiling. Their congratulations, when offered, were quiet and lackluster.

What on earth was their problem?

0–0

All through the evening, after Fred left, Mary kept stopping to remind herself that she was engaged. She could send little notes to her sisters with the news tomorrow. And she couldn't wait to see Fred again, to start planning. She'd talked a mile a minute all through dinner, but her parents didn't give her much of a response. They kept glancing down the table at each other that serious way that always annoyed her a little. It made her feel left out.

She was in such a good mood she didn't want to be alone. After dinner, she went down to the study to see what Dad was up to. He was flipping through one of his science journals.

"Want to play checkers?" she asked, throwing her old man a bone. They'd not played for a while, and she felt bad. Dad seemed to miss it.

"Of course," he replied, sounding pleased. He cleared a space on his desk while Mary went to the cabinet for the game.

As Mary set up the board she kept admiring the way her diamond caught the light. Dad seemed quiet as he placed his pieces on the board, but then he was always quiet. Mary never read too much into it.

Eventually, Dad glanced up at her. "Mary, about your—engagement."

Her ears pricked immediately. "What about it?" she asked, examining the board. "Don't you like Fred?"

"Yes," Dad said slowly. "He's a very—he's, ah—fine. It's just...do you think you're ready to get married? That Fred is?"

"I'm just as ready as everybody else!" Mary replied. "More, I bet. I've had more time. I've seen everybody else get married, so I know what I'm in for."

"That's a good point," Dad said, capturing one of her pieces.

"I brought Fred home all the time, you met him right away!" Mary started hopping her pieces across the board as she talked. "I didn't keep him a secret like Anne kept Ned a secret. And Liddie married somebody twice her age and didn't even tell us she was engaged until the morning she wanted to get married. Freddy proposed right in front of you and Mother, no secrets at all. He even made that nice little speech!"

"And that was very right of him, but-"

"I've been seeing Fred for a whole year, and he's given up a lot of work to stay here with me," Mary said, her ears starting to get hot. "We have lots in common. And my engagement wasn't arranged, either. We met at Catherine's wedding, the most normal thing in the world. Actually, in terms of getting married, I'm the most normal kid you have. King me!"

Dad kinged her. There was a silence as he studied his own position on the board. It wasn't great. He made that _tsk_ sound he did with his teeth when he was thinking.

"You're right," Dad told her at last. He made the only move left to him, and then sat back in his chair, looking at her fondly. "You had the most normal courtship out of any of us, didn't you?"

"Do I get a medal?" Mary asked.

Dad laughed, but quickly was serious again. "Getting married is an important decision, Mary," he said in that tone that made Mary want to stop listening. "Give it thought. That's all I ask."

"Okay," she lied. "I will."

It was pointless. She'd already thought about it. She'd already decided. That was all there was to it.

"Thanks for the game," she said. "Good night."

"Good night, Mary," Dad replied. Mary kissed him on the cheek before heading upstairs.

On her way to her bedroom she noticed Mother's door was ajar. Mary peeked in to see Mother at her vanity, sorting through her jewelry box. Since the door was open, Mary walked in without knocking and plopped down in the armchair by the window.

Mother gave her a sideways glance. "Good evening, dear," she said.

"Evening," Mary said, watching her mother as she sifted through a tray of earrings.

"I don't think Liddie ever returned those pearls," Mother remarked to herself at length. Finished with her earrings, she moved on to rings, turning each just so in their compartments. Mary watched her for a bit, and twirled the ring on her own finger.

"I don't think Dad wants me to marry Fred," Mary confided. Mother paused, her thinking face on.

"Perhaps he simply thinks you might give it a bit more thought," Mother said evenly, not looking up. A wave of temper crashed over Mary.

"I have!" she said through gritted teeth. Hearing her tone, Mother finally looked at her. "I told Dad. We've known each other forever-"

"A year," Mother interrupted quietly.

"Anne only knew Ned a year! And they snuck around! I never kept Fred a secret! You didn't care when it was Anne!"

" _Mary_ ," Mother hissed, holding up her hands. "Keep your voice down."

"Why is it different for me?" Mary cried, annoyed by how close she felt to tears. "Why is it _always_ different for me? Why aren't you happy for me, like you were for everyone else?"

Mother's face softened. She inched over on her vanity stool, making a little room, and waved Mary over. For a second Mary thought about refusing, but didn't have the heart. Besides, she could use a hug. Mary perched next to her mother, looking at their reflections in the mirror. Mother stroked Mary's hair.

"I am happy for you," Mother told her. "Being in love is wonderful. But marriage is about more than that. I know it sounds stuffy, but it's true. I know that you and Fred...love each other. But is that enough for a marriage?"

Finally, it clicked. Something in the way Mother said "love." Mary watched her own eyes widen with mischief in the mirror.

"Mother," she said innocently, "When you say 'love,' do you mean 'sex'?"

Never in her life had Mary seen someone go so pale so fast as Mother did just then. Mother froze like a doe who smelled a hunter on the wind. Mary finally did laugh then.

"It is not funny," Mother said flatly, dropping her hand from Mary's hair.

"Yes it is," laughed Mary. "Really? Is that what you're worried about? Is that why you and Dad are being so weird? You disapprove because you think it's all about sex?"

"Now, there is no need to be vulgar," Mother said, cross. She shut her jewelry box and got up. She marched over to the wardrobe, keeping her back to Mary, and tugged a drawer open so hard it screeched.

This was hilarious. Mother wasn't _wrong_ , not altogether. Mary and Fred had a great physical connection and Mary wasn't ashamed about it. But to say it was the _basis_ of their relationship wasn't fair. Just because the two of them had constant fireworks didn't mean it meant any less.

"I can still wear a white wedding dress, if that's what you're worried about," Mary offered. _Technically_ , she added in her head. Mother didn't dignify that with a response, merely snatched a nightgown from a drawer with more aggression than necessary.

"Mother," said Mary, serious now, doing her best to sound adult. She felt bad for laughing. It wasn't Mother's fault she was old-fashioned. "Freddy's got a good job. He works for a magazine. He's very good at what he does and he makes a good living. He's reliable and he's kind and we love each other. What else do you want?"

There was a loaded silence. Mary could tell her mother was considering carefully. At last she turned, and made her way back to where Mary sat.

"You're right," said Mother with a sigh. "Fred is a very nice boy. I've worried about the pair of you, though."

"Well, you needn't," Mary said, trying to be reassuring. "We're happy."

Mother took Mary's face in her hands, and looked at her closely. "What am I going to do with you?" she asked in a soft sort of way.

"You could take me to the dressmaker tomorrow to design a wedding dress," Mary replied cheerfully.

At last, Mother laughed, and Mary relaxed. Mother kissed her on the forehead and pulled her into a hug.

"Oh, you just seem so young, Mary, that's all," Mother said, squeezing her tighter. "You naughty little thing."

The words were filled with affection. When her mother called her naughty, it was an endearment, and had been as long as Mary could remember. At least, Mary hoped that's how her mother meant it.

"Go to bed now," said Mother, patting Mary on the cheek. "We'll talk more tomorrow."

Feeling lighter, happier, Mary did as she was told. In her room she got herself ready for bed. As she put on her nightgown she thought about her parents. How she'd always be the baby to them. How they hadn't reacted to her sisters' engagements like this at all. Mary, in an attempt to be mature, did her best to forgive them, to understand.

After all, she knew, they were right to be worried. She _did_ carry on a bit. But she was happy. And she was getting married. Maybe now that they'd cleared the air a bit, Mother and Dad would be more supportive.

With gentle care, Mary put her engagement ring on her bedside table, right next to her clock. It would be the first thing she saw in the morning.

0–0

"Look, I'm even getting married in the church. Nobody else did that. Not even you and Mother!" Mary told Dad triumphantly. They were at the doors of the church, ready to walk down the aisle. Mary was shivering. Her wedding day was sunny but cold, a week before Christmas.

Dad closed his eyes briefly and rubbed at the bridge of his nose before grinning at her. "Yes, I know," he said. "You win, Mary."

Mary glanced around the church. Only the front pews were filled. Fred's parents hadn't been able to make the long trip on such short notice. Mary's grandparents, who predictably did not particularly care for Fred, were in attendance. Anne had brought along her son, who burbled every now then. Catherine and Teddy were dressed to the nines and had a seat right up front. Liddie, even bigger and angrier than she had been at Mary's birthday, was beside them with her husband. Pastor Galswells, incredibly elderly but still incredibly intimidating, was behind the table at the front.

Sunshine came through the stained glass window, throwing merry colors on the greenery strung up around the church for the holidays. It suited Mary just fine. She carried a bouquet of white roses, and on her breast she wore the family wedding flowers. Catherine had gotten all misty when she'd handed over the pin last week. Mary didn't quite share the same feeling. It was hard to get worked up about some dried flowers from a lifetime ago. Particularly when the whole point of this day was the lifetime ahead. But she was wearing them all the same. It made everyone else happy.

Her dress was beautiful. Particularly because of the rush job it had been. Luckily Mother was so good at sewing—she'd done the final alterations Mary had wanted. Even the knee-high hemline in front. The veil was longer than the skirt. Dad had to keep pushing it back into place behind her every time the cold breeze blew it up.

"Oh! There's Fred! Let's go!" Mary whispered excitedly, spying Fred take his place at the end of the aisle. Oh, was he ever good-looking. He cleaned up very well. Mary shivered again, not altogether from the cold this time.

"Mary, just a moment," Dad told her, refusing to move even as she tugged on his elbow. "Wait for Pastor Galswells to cue you. He likes his weddings to go according to plan." This last was added in a rueful kind of way.

Mary was tensed like a greyhound before a race. After what felt like five years, the pastor made eye contact with her, and she was off. She knew she was supposed to walk at a measured, stately pace, but her feet weren't cooperating. It was her wedding day, and she wanted to get up to where Fred was and get on with it as quickly as possible.

"Mary, slow down," Dad said in an undertone. He slowed his pace to nearly a standstill so that Mary, on his arm, had to comply. Everyone in the pews had turned to look at her. She appreciated their happy, impressed expressions as they watched her walk down the aisle. Mary didn't clean up so badly herself.

Then she looked at Fred. He had turned and watching her approach, and his jaw had dropped. Mary was so proud and flattered she grinned until she thought her cheeks would crack. Fred was beaming at her, the most handsome groom in the world.

"You're going too quickly again," Dad whispered gently, but this time he didn't try to stop her. They finished the walk up the aisle at a quick stride led by Mary, tugging Dad along in her wake. Once beside Fred, she kissed Dad on the cheek, handed him her bouquet, and then grabbed Fred's hand.

From behind her Mary could hear Catherine's muffled giggle. Dad, bemused, just shook his head a little before taking his seat next to Mother in the front pew. Mary was focused only on Fred. His hand was big and rough and warm around hers. They each took their lit candles from the table in front of the pastor. And after opening remarks which to Mary seemed to take way too long, it was time for the vows.

Fred said his first, a cheeky little grin on his face the entire time. When he got to the bit with the ring, he took his time sliding it onto her finger.

"With this ring, I ask you to be mine," Fred said, giving her newly ringed hand a squeeze. Mary felt like telling him she didn't even need the ring. She'd been his for a while now.

Pastor Galswells turned to Mary. Agonizingly slowly, he handed her Fred's ring. In his quavery old voice, the pastor said, "And now you, Miss Van D-"

"With this hand, I will lift your sorrows," Mary jumped in, talking fast. Fred, she could tell, was biting back a laugh. "Your cup will never empty, for I will be your wine."

Mary paused. What was the next one? She couldn't remember. And Fred had just said it two seconds ago. She looked at him for help. Fred looked back at her, his grin faltering a bit. So she looked at Pastor Galswells, who just glowered at her.

 _I should have agreed to a rehearsal_ , she thought to herself. She'd been too cocky to feel she needed one. The pause was getting embarrassing now. Hand, wine, ring...there was a fourth one. Could she just skip to the ring bit? The audience was getting restless. The baby made a little squawk. People were starting to shift and whisper. Mary heard Grandfather Everglot harrumph.

Then came a cough from right behind her. She turned a little. It was Dad. " _Candle_ ," he said through a second, more theatrical cough. Mother, beside him, covered her eyes with her hand and shook her head.

"Oh! Right!" said Mary, out loud before she could stop herself. She heard a few snickers from the pews, most definitely her sisters. "With this _candle_ , I will light your way in darkness. With this ring, I ask you to be mine."

She grabbed Fred's hand and slid on the ring, having to force it a bit over his knuckle. He was beaming down at her.

"I now pronounce you man and wife," said Pastor Galswells. Without being instructed, Fred and Mary kissed. Probably a bit longer than they needed to just to seal their marriage. But Mary was lost in the bliss of the moment.

They pulled apart, and turned to face the world, married now. Mary didn't feel any different. She felt just the same as she had when she'd walked down the aisle minutes ago. A bit more in love, maybe. Mary glanced up at her new husband, who took her by the arm and led her back down the aisle out of the church.

Fred's poor, banged-up old car was waiting out front, sitting there in stark contrast to the handsome family carriage Mary and Dad had arrived in. Rosie, the horse, glanced at them on their way by. Mary gave her a little pat on the nose, wanting to include everyone in her joy. Fred opened the passenger door for her and she climbed in. Fred had to stuff her veil in after her, until she felt lost in a sea of netting. He could just barely get the door closed.

"Shall we take a little spin, Mrs. Stieglitz?" Fred asked after he hopped behind the wheel and started up the car. "We've got a little time to kill. Long way around the village wall, then back to your folks'?"

There was going to be a reception back at Mary's house. They had plenty of time to give the guests a chance to arrive ahead of them. Mary pushed aside her gathered-up veil and adjusted her headpiece.

"Let's go, Mr. Stieglitz," Mary replied with a laugh.

And off they went.

 **The End!**

 **Author's Note:**

Please ignore all dates that I tied myself to in earlier stories. I've had new ideas since and the timeline doesn't quite work. I really shouldn't have done that! Thanks! -PP


End file.
